


In Riddle's Shadow: The Autobiography of Persephone Starrett

by solidground



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst and Humor, Canon Compliant, F/M, The History of Tom Riddle
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-10
Updated: 2015-04-10
Packaged: 2018-03-22 04:42:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3715423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/solidground/pseuds/solidground
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I can't keep it on the shelves. Sells faster than cold butterbeer on a hot day." Brutus Blotts, VII, owner of Flourish and Blotts, Inc.</p>
<p>"An insightful coming of age story set against the tragedy of Tom Riddle's (or was it Stubby Boardman's?) rise to power."--Librus Legiblus, book editor, <i>The Quibbler</i></p>
<p>"Finally, something not by Rita Skeeter." --Kingsley Shacklebolt, Minister of Magic</p>
<p>"An obvious cover up of unspeakable scandals. And everything she says about me is a lie."--Rita Skeeter, reporter, <i>Daily Prophet</i></p>
<p>"Get your damn Quick-Quotes Quill out of my face." --Persephone Starrett, author</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Introduction

**Author's Note:**

> Greetings, fellow readers!
> 
> I've posted this on other sites years ago, but have since drifted on to this community, so here it is, with some slight modification.
> 
> I hope you enjoy it!

I didn’t want to write this story. It is _my_ story and it is none of your damn business. You have no right to know how the years of my youth were spent or who I spent them with.

But that trash-writing, stupid, undeserving cow, Rita Skeeter, and her meddling, lying quill decided that you lot deserved the truth about my life. She took it upon herself to try to drag my personal affairs out into the spotlight so that all you good people with your newly-safe little lives could gape at the memories that have haunted me all these years.

I burned the letter from her first owl and sent back the ashes in a Howler. I ignored the next fourteen.

When she showed up at my doorstep, acid green quill and parchment floating behind her, I knew that this was inevitable.

I opened the door with my wand in hand and a hex on my lips, but that infuriating quill had already begun to write. A furious Finite was enough to knock it to the ground and I snatched the parchment from the dirt. A bit of surprise for the both of us. I hadn't moved that quickly in a long time.

_Persephone Starrett lives alone in a tiny glen in Scotland, the low-branched trees and slow-winding mist serving as a shroud of guilt and shame to hide her from prying eyes. She’s still beautiful at seventy-four, a small but regal figure with long, dark hair and dark blue eyes, but there’s a sad emptiness to her that speaks of years of self-imposed suffering. What secrets might she be hiding beneath that lonely gaze?_

_This compassionate reporter has come to relieve her of her shame, to free the vict—_

Victim, ha! She’d always had a flair for the dramatic. I remember running into Rita and her mother in Diagon Alley when she was a teenager—I would guess about 15 years old. That brunette terror—she’s not a natural blonde, not that she would admit it—was throwing the most spectacular tantrum I had ever seen over a stationary set at Flourish and Blotts. She spouted an array of nasty lies about her mother in an attempt to win over the gathering crowd, but the effect was ruined when in all the excitement, Little Miss Skeeter forgot the pressing bodily function that had caused them to enter the shop in the first place. I still chuckle every time I think of that snotty little girl in her suddenly damp robes.

I bet she’s never told _that_ story to her Quick Quotes Quill.

"Persephone Starrett, it is such an honor!" She stuck out her mannish-but-manicured hands to try to envelop mine in greeting. And to grab her parchment.

I pulled the parchment away, keeping my wand steadily pointed at her. "I highly doubt it. State your business or leave, child."

A hungry flash of hope flickered in her eyes and her voice dripped with honeyed flattery. "I'm Rita Skeeter, a reporter for the _Daily Prophet_ , and I have come to ask you a few questions about your so very remarkable life."

"I would prefer you didn't, girl." I looked at my watch. "And, as you have approximately twenty seconds before my wards kick in and alert Aurors to an unauthorized presence on my property, I don't really think you have the time to get into my _remarkable_ life." 

Her eyes widened. Fear, perhaps? "Oh, I'm sure you and I can come to an understanding about this! It could be highly profitable for you, a nice retir--"

"Ten seconds, Rita."

Rita snarled. "Fine! I'll write it without you, you traitorous whore! Plenty of your friends are willing to talk!"

She positively fled as I raised my wand, that cowardly thing. She even left her precious quill.

* * *

 

Later that night, I charmed a quill of my own to scratch out on parchment what little I have left to offer.

If you’re going to read my story, it is going to be in my words, not in the worthless drivel Rita Skeeter writes. It isn’t an easy story to tell and I certainly don’t trust a reporter the _Daily Prophet_ thinks is worthwhile to be skilled enough to tell it accurately.

I refuse to be painted as some tragic heroine suffering in silence for the foolishness of her youth. I live in isolation because I don’t like most people. If I were trying to pay a penance, I would be living in Hogsmeade, surrounded by the inanity of you annoying people, not enjoying a profitable business and a cottage with a lovely view. Don’t get me wrong, I do have regrets about what happened. I hold no illusions about what I’ve done—I was no silly lovesick girl, no helpless victim. I’ve never tried to romanticize who Tom was, what we did, who we were.

It might have been easier on you to read Rita Skeeter’s version of my life. But this is not about what is easy. This is about the truth, and the truth is always hard to swallow.


	2. First Year

In all honesty, I cannot tell you about the first time I saw him. Others seem to have these melodramatic memories of a cold, sinking feelings and instincts going haywire. They claim that they  _knew_  exactly what he would become as soon as they shook his hand.

I would like to, as respectfully as possible, tell you that they are all self-righteous and utterly full of shit. If we had known what that little boy would grow up to be, we would have surely stopped him.

We didn’t know. How could we have possibly known? He was just a boy then and nothing in the world could have told us what he would become. Not even Albus Dumbledore knew just what that boy would grow up to do. 

Tom Riddle and I were in the same year, so I suppose I must have seen him at the Sorting. I might have even stood next to him in line; I don’t recall much about the night. I was rather caught up in my own little world. I come from a long line of Ravenclaws and in my anxiety over being Sorted properly, I could think of nothing else.

When the Hat rested upon my head, it hummed.

_“Well?”_  I asked, quite annoyed that a hat would hum at me.

_“_ _It has always been easy to place your family members, Miss Starrett. Rowena would have been proud of her sister’s line._

_“_ _But you present quite the challenge. You would do well in the house of your forefathers, dear, but you would make a fine addition to this year’s Slytherin class—I have a feeling that your presence would do them much good and you have quite the desire for the spotlight, don’t you? Besides, I’ve always wanted to place a Founder’s family member in the wrong house and the last one refused me.”_

_“Try it on the next one, then.”_ I snapped.  _“Slytherin’s a fine house, but I have no wish to spend my school years in a den of schemers. And I look much better in blue.”_

_“_ _As you wish, then.”_

I passed through the rest of the Feast in a daze. I was sorted into Ravenclaw, of course, but the conversation with the Hat had puzzled me. I was so sure that I was not a Slytherin, but then, maybe I could have been, in another lifetime. 

Now, looking back, I might understand what the Hat had been trying to do. I don’t think it would have worked, of course, but maybe we should be paying more attention to the wretched thing. What else has had the opportunity to view the minds and talents of so many wizards? No centaur, arithmancer, or Trelawney could ever possess the kind of insight that moldy fabric has.

Nevertheless, despite the Hat’s trepidation, I was the consummate Ravenclaw first year—all high marks, brilliant essays, clever comments and cool attitudes. Like my roommates, my days revolved around lessons and work in the classrooms, my nights around the debates and laughter in the common room. Who knows what I would have laughed at in the dungeons? Would it really have been all that different?

I don't like to dwell on the question much, but in a book such as this, perhaps I should. 

No, I don't think I will.

* * *

 

It was late October before I really noticed him.

We were pulled aside in Charms one day as the class practiced the Softening Charm. We stood together in front of Professor Goshawk’s desk, watching her make rounds through the room to check on our classmates. He didn’t say anything and neither did I. We took turns eyeing each other and looking away politely. We pretended not to notice when our gazes met, but by the time the professor had returned to her desk, we had each thoroughly examined the other.

Professor Goshawk cracked the silence for us. “You two have been introduced, I assume?” 

“No, ma’am,” he said. He turned to me, a handsome, if reserved, smile on his face. “Tom Riddle.”

My first thought upon knowing Tom Riddle was that he was tall. I have always been petite, but even when we were eleven, I had to tilt my head back to peer into his dark eyes. It was all at once intimidating and impressive.

I smiled my best high society smile as I met his gaze. Mother would have been proud. “Persephone Starrett.”

I lifted my hand carefully, so as to not exclude the handshake that half-bloods and Muggleborns were so fond of. I found handshakes vulgar back then, to be honest, but knew from experience that expecting a proper greeting would often disappoint me.

Tradition-bound Slytherin that he was, he took my hand in his two, bowing slightly. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Miss Starrett.”

“Charmed,” I said, smiling. I was probably blushing, too; I have always been a bit of a sucker for old fashioned gestures, particularly from tall and handsome men. 

Professor Goshawk had a peculiar look in her eye I’ve noticed quite a few teachers sporting from time to time. It usually means that they’re up to no good. Albus Dumbledore was the master of that look (and, of course, meddling with students in general), but on a good day, Goshawk could match him. “Lovely. Now, Mister Riddle, Miss Starrett, I have a proposition to make.”

She wanted us to partner together so we could work ahead of the class. Professor Goshawk always had a good eye for students needing an extra push and, really, the two of us working together was a brilliant idea.

We made a great team. I enjoyed the calculating way he approached a problem almost as much as he admired my openness and creativity. Not that we ever said anything about that, of course. Neither of us were comfortable with forcing compliments and flattery on the other at that point. I had enough of that silliness at home and he wasn’t nearly as well versed in proper social manners as he would become in later years.

We were rather distant as partners at first. I was wary of having a Slytherin friend and he seemed wary of friends in general. So we didn’t become friends in first year, but we did grow as close as the word “acquaintance” would allow. He and I were very alike back then. Intelligent and driven, we pushed ourselves to excellence in class. I can’t remember now whose marks were higher in which class, but we were always very close. We both hated Quidditch—to this day, I hate that stupid sport. Imbeciles getting paid to flit around on broomsticks? It’s a waste of a Knut, let alone the obscene amount of Galleons they make. We both loved Chocolate Frogs and collecting the cards.

We were different, too, in the little ways that always seem to matter most in hindsight. I was far more forgiving and trusting than Tom ever was and had none of his reservations about sharing my possessions. He was more confident than I, a natural leader. And, perhaps most importantly, I was a Pureblood from a well-known and respected family. He was a half-blood orphan with a Muggle’s last name. It might not be too polite to point that out now, considering this “heritage equality” crusade the Ministry’s been pushing recently, but it’s true. I had support and influence as soon as I walked into Hogwarts; he had to fight to prove himself worthy with every step.

His questions about my family were innocent curiosities at first, the wonderings of a child who had no family. It must have sounded so wonderful to him in those early days, hearing about my family and our Pureblood traditions and long history. I visited the orphanage where he grew up once, when I was in my thirties, looking for answers. It looked like a miserable place for a child to live.

Tom first asked me about my home in January, after we returned from the winter holiday. It was a polite, expected sort of query in class, something like “Did you have a pleasant break, Persephone?”

I had, of course, and I soon began to offer tale after tale of all the ways the Starrett line celebrated the winter season. He was enthralled by them, taking in the stories like they were a Potion edifying him against the stark reality of the orphanage he’d lived in. He asked about details I had never considered, reveled in the pageantry that had bored me for years. He and I started talking outside of class after that. Not a whole lot of conversation, but on Saturday afternoons, we occasionally met in the library to work through essays and enjoy another round of interrogation about Pureblood life.

It’s funny, which conversations I remember best. In mid-February, Tom asked me about the hair barrette I’ve always worn. He pulled out a chair for me in the library—between my instruction and that of the Slytherins, he had picked up on a lot of the basic niceties of old families—and sat beside me with a smile.

“Do you always wear that barrette?”

“Yes. It was my mother’s. And her mother’s. It's got a special charm to keep it in place.”

“It’s beautiful, Persephone.”

“I wish you would stop using my name all the time, Tom,” I complained, rolling my eyes. “I hate my name.”

He smiled. “I hate mine, too, you know.”

“I like the name Tom. It’s nice and simple—a strong, normal name. Persephone is such a mouthful.” I sighed dramatically as I pulled parchment out of my bag. “And who would name their daughter for an empty-headed ninny like Persephone?”

“A mother who loved her daughter enough to brave Hades and death.” His eyes were so serious and intense that I almost knocked the inkwell off of the table. “It’s a name you should be grateful for.” He could twist anything to his advantage.

"I suppose that's true," I said breathlessly. "I doubt Mother ever put so much thought into it. I do wish it would condense to a more manageable nickname. Mother tried calling me Persie for a while." 

He chuckled. It was a happy sound, if a rare one. "I'm sure something will come to you in time."

* * *

 

 Just after the Easter holiday, he bent down to pick up some parchment I had dropped in the corridor. “Here,” he said. “You’ve dropped your notes.”

It was the first time he had spoken to me outside of class or our study sessions. I remember the colored sunlight across his face, the blues and greens of the stained glass painting his cheekbones and eyes with unexpected brightness. Tom looked so happy in that moment, so at peace.

“Thank you, Tom.”

“My pleasure, Sepha.” Blue and green light flashed across his face as he smiled at me, a mischievous grin.

"Sepha?" 

"You said you needed a nickname."

I loved it, of course. "It's wonderful!"

A few of his Slytherin friends must have come in his sight, because the smile became polite and he stiffened out of the sunlight. He handed me my parchment, gave the slightest inclination of a bow, and, with a tiny grin over his shoulder, left me standing in the hallway.

Sometimes, when I let myself drift through memory, I see him as he was then. A young, happy, and undeniably charming twelve-year-old boy with nothing in the world but talent and good manners. If I’m not mistaken, a few of Mister Potter’s acquaintances can remember him that way, as a child amazed by magic. It’s difficult not to think of Tom like that when that was how I knew him first.

He and I had several study sessions after the holiday, but, dedicated to the work as we were, few of those conversations stick with me now. They melt together into such a haze of books and ink and wand movements that I’ll never be able to untangle those memories. It’s been so long now that it feels like a whole other world.

No nobody's surprise, we both passed the exams with ease. We didn’t officially find out until we had parted ways for the summer, of course, but being Professor Goshawk’s favorite students had advantages. I didn’t see him after our exams that year.

We went home to our separate worlds. It was fairly easy for me to forget him that summer. I had a family to go home to, friends who were able to visit. With the Muggle World on the edge of disaster and rumors of Grindelwald growing darker, we traveled less than usual. Still, we sunned ourselves on the beaches of Greece (we had been hoping for Italy or Spain) and luxuriated in shopping in Wizarding Paris (it was unpatriotic to visit Milan, unfortunately). We held dinner parties and afternoon teas with fancy gowns and rich food. It's obscene what Pureblood families will create to remind themselves how pureblooded they are.  _  
_

Tom returned to an empty, cold building and a summer with absolutely no magic. It must have been nearly impossible to bear, being cut off from the world that had finally given meaning and sense to his life. His rooms were hot and stiff in the summer heat as he read letters from Slytherins vacationing in the fjords. His food was bland and underprovided while I pushed away plate after plate protesting that I was too full. He lived with the constant reminder that he was an outsider no matter where he went.

I don't want to give him excuses or explain away what he's done. There are, clearly, no answers, no valid explanations for things like this, but the questions still stand. Questions that burn old women like me as we sift through what was meaningful in our lives. Questions I won't list here so that lazy readers can feel like they've accomplished grand social justice by briefly contemplating a few words. Search for the questions on your own; I will not let you have them so easily. 

I am a Ravenclaw, after all, and we don't find, we seek. 


End file.
